Don't Touch Me Like Snowfall
by rusalkagirl
Summary: Charlie, finding herself in the care of Sebastian Monroe, is very in touch with her anger. Bass seems to be in touch with everything else.
1. Part One

"It is nice to see you again, Charlotte," followed by a handshake.

Eyes cowering under their lids, then suddenly opened - exposed, bulging, sockets red enough to drip fire on anyone who met her gaze. Monroe was rough, but articulate. There was no chance to misinterpret his words, and Charlie hated this; she had wanted him to be many things. That list did not include clever, polite, or attractive.

His hands were warm on her, and slick, as if he'd dipped them in invisible ink and wished to brand her skin with a mark only his eyes could see. The touch felt too easy. In absence of any ignorance, she wanted to believe he was poisonous, exudes some toxin she is immune to.

Charlie stirred carefully, getting a glimpse of her surroundings before formulating any response. They were alone; Miles had a mission of his own and left his niece at the mercy of an old friend. He had not mentioned that this old friend was Sebastian Monroe - the man responsible for her brother's premature death, leader of a ruthless militia. For that reason, she was surprised to find he was not at all reptile-like, and his veins did not appear to be flowing with cold blood.

"I don't know what you are talking about. If I had met you before now, there would have already been a bullet through your brain."

She did not acknowledge how her cheeks heated up, perhaps even reddened, when Monroe laughed. She also pretended not to have become fixated on the crow's feet in the corners of his eyes - only visible when grinning.

The general stepped slightly backward, having forgotten the young woman's age. Became more formal, somehow, though his posture still is not as straight as some sovereigns would find customary. "Of course. You are hardly more than a child, you would not remember now. I apologize," he chanted, ominously.

"I am not a…"

Charlie did not have time to finish her protest, and was almost glad to be interrupted by Monroe; her embarrassment rose upon sounding so defensive. "Oh, of course," he repeated, "I meant no harm. You have grown to be a very beautiful young lady, Charlotte. As I said, it is nice to see you again - out of diapers. And carrying such an impressive bow and arrow. Miles has taught you well, much like he did for your mother. Now that I think about it, there is some stunning resemblance between you and her."

He inched closer, until he was near enough to count Charlie's thickened eyelashes or be brushed by her shirt should a breeze come. She retreated immediately, feeling undressed by his gaze, but not threatened. "Fuck you."

"Well." Monroe smiled at the scoffing girl in front of him, liking the sight of her fluster - and under his control. Although his memories would not be entirely pleasant to her ears, she did not need to know; he wanted Charlotte to be a specimen of the past, a beautiful ghost plaguing this future of rotting bodies and bile on swords. Bowels unraveled into blankets wherever he walks. Buildings falling like hair from a dying veteran's follicles. A sun given craters from the moon. Where a match seems magic, a candle something to become aroused at. The only fallen stars are constructed of radiation, therefore are dangerous to wish upon.

The imminent weeks would hardly be more than a science project, or the remnants of his thirty year old college course of psychology put to test. Yet there was something lethal about Charlie that Monroe had not suspected to exist, and it was not merely the weapons she held to her breast - probably a product of her lineage. If Charlotte had come to know Rachel as he had, her mother's spirit was likely the infection.

Extending a hand eastward, the general guided Charlie to the barracks. Her new bedroom. It was nicer than what she was used to, though the cot stung her calves with its metal chill.

"Let me know if I can do something to make you more comfortable, Charlotte," her host chimed from the doorway.

This pulled Charlie from her musings, and her appreciation for staying in such a place faded when her blue orbs returned to Monroe. She could not bear to settle her eyes on him, not any longer; disgust swam through a pit in her stomach, realizing she left her loyalty at the door. Danny - her poor, deceased baby brother. Charlie hoped he was not spitting at her from the heavens, but understood if he was.

Forcing a nod of acknowledgement, the girl begged silently for Monroe to be on his way soon. Before he could go, however, she mumbled, "My name is not Charlotte."

The last image Monroe caught of Charlie that evening was one of her armament being buried under a pillow, to keep her body warm while she slept. The last Charlie saw of Monroe was that damned grin, the cursed smile he gave that sent fleets through her nerves. She could not decide if it was more condescending than cute. She just knew that she detested it enough to desire gore spilling from between those generous lips.


	2. Part Two

Monroe's corridor seemed to be more of a sanctuary than anything else. Its ceiling rose far beyond the heads of even the tallest men, and graffiti sprinkled every exposed beam almost as cathedrals are painted by saints. How something so derelict could be misidentified as godly, Charlie did not understand, but Monroe liked to live in such vague terms. He personified a God complex - superior enough to possess power, conceited enough to believe he could move mountains with it. Cavalierly, Charlie wondered how many churches Monroe could decorate if he dabbed the blood of every person whose life he ended onto a paintbrush.

"You know, most girls I know sleep with a Bible under their pillow," his voice rang into the limitless air. Echo is not the proper expression for it; "breezes" is better. Instead of every word fading on top of one another, the last most emphasized, there rests a continuous flow of sound that never reaches end. When he talks, Charlie thought, every syllable lasts like a groan, making any conversation difficult to swallow - much less forget. Why he felt the need to show her every corner of camp was a mystery to begin with.

She smirked, cheekbones pointing toward the sky. "Most girls are not within walking distance from General Sebastian Monroe."

A chair, stonewashed chartreuse cushions, by an unopened door. On the other side, presumably, was his private bedroom, where he let his guard down for up to eight hours a night. He sat down, appearing injured, calculating his next statement. Two of his fingers – the ring and pinky - caught each other, and a string on his boot napped against the splintered limb of his seat: a least perfect leader. Anxious, he murmured, "I would not hurt you." This did not remain floating above them, rather sunk and dissolved like a humid rain.

"Doesn't matter," Charlie cooed, half-empowered by his unease. She had hoped to disarm him for a very long time. "I would hurt you."

"I remember holding you years and years ago, you kicking your chubby legs at me, barely conscious. You were enamored with tea parties, and I wanted little to do with your dresses and chipped plastic cups." Monroe tilted his head away from his defiant guest as he spoke. Still, it pained him to verbalize memories Miles and Rachel had tried to physically wring from his body after what he'd done; his jaw was clenched so firmly, even Charlie was aware of his teeth grinding like knives on sand. "I say that because… because you thought you wanted to hurt me then, like you do now. But all you have ever wanted was to get your way."

Rounded fists met his desk, likely leaving splinters in her knuckles. The room warbled with Charlie's anger. "I just want my brother to be alive. You killed him – you don't get to fucking say that I am selfish for avenging his life. Miles may be able to forgive, or cares more to be a search party for my mom, but I am not him. You act like you were part of my family. You act like you are someone's God. Go to hell."

Go to hell, go to hell, go to hell. The man, well into his forties, believed he had faced, even known and become friends with, hell beforehand. Now, he had seen Charlotte all grown up and learned otherwise. Hell was not death, nor was it bringing fury to a beautiful girl's eyes; hell comes with breaking her heart.

She fled the room, abandoning droplets of her blood on Bass' desk.


	3. Part Three

Back in the glorified cubicle where she slept, Charlie fought hot tears – boiling, pinpricks of emotions materializing on her exterior. Her shirt, hardly a sheet of fabric anymore, had begun to stick to her skin. Something was always relentlessly glued to her, and never anything pleasant.

A mirror no larger than a basketball, similar in shape as well, was perched on the wall, clumsily and cocked to the left. She had not caught her reflection in months.

Raising her slim body onto her tippy-toes, Charlie found herself within the glass and sighed. Hundreds of freckles had swarmed her face, due to weeks spent in unclouded deserts; it was a wonder anyone found her attractive, appearing as if she is coated, dipped in dead gnats. Whatever dust had crusted underneath her fingernails could be treated as mascara, it was so thick. And her lips – chapped, of course. They were brocaded in a pattern of raw pink and humiliation red, raised from teeth being sunk into the flesh beds. She spent a few seconds licking at her mouth, the corners and foundation, in a gauche attempt to moisturize.

Then, her fresh wound. Although it was a newborn baby compared to rest of her scars, it was ugly – already beginning to bruise amethyst in the natural contours of hardwood.

"I brought you bandages, Charlotte."

Monroe's face, frosted in her mirror. She stumbled. She cursed herself for reacting with fright, when she had been experiencing fury for this man in many of her conscious years. She had given him an advantage.

Sparkles, clear but glittering spheres were in her eyes. Moving with her pupils like a planet orbiting its sun. "You are crying," Bass perceived, soberly, without intention to upset her further. "Please use these, Charlotte. It may help. "

No motion was birthed from the floor where she sank, kneecaps steadying her while pressed into greyed concrete. It was safer, somehow, to be below the general – offered him the control he knew was his. That way, Charlie need not confront him, instead counted grains of soil that contacted her skin. When she found the courage to talk, at least murmur, strings of hair prevented her mouth from moving, her lips from parting. She became irritated that her throat was uncomfortably dry while her eyes remained misty. Finally, a sentence was manifested: "Do not call me Charlotte."

"Then, please call me Bass." And a good-natured chuckle, the twin to a hum.

Knowing better to expect an answer, Bass sat beside Charlie. A chance at equality. The two marinated in silence for some amount of seconds or minutes, neither could be quite sure, until Bass reached for her arm. Birthmarks cascaded from the wrist to her shoulder, each uniting with its surroundings into a form of constellation. The limb itself was lanky; she wore it distant from herself, a ladder to get closer, discover intimacy.

Bass tasted guilt, and momentarily did not understand why. He craved her essence, to taste the path between her breasts and heart, but did not deserve it. "Even your bruises are beautiful," it was said. Released. Not able to be ingested or forgotten. "This new one is like lace, curves like the draperies on a wedding dress."

Marriage was an ancient concept. Upon losing electricity, children rarely had opportunity to learn to read or handwrite; Charlie would be fortunate to comprehend enough cursive to sign her name on a certificate. Or perhaps this accounted for an absence of love over poor education.

Four calloused hands climbing each other. Charlie's were so different from when she was a child, Bass noted; she preserved her girlhood, but was separated from the accompanying purity. Nowadays, it is impossible to be soft and survive.

Charlie found a temporary patience as her enemy knotted her lesions with gauze. Cushioning did relieve a bit of the throb, and if she did not allow her gaze to wander, she could escape to a psychological wonderland where she soothed Danny's aches. Only Bass' breath, sticky as a canine's, gave him away. She felt it creating a spine along her palms. And his thumb on hers, Charlie could number every wrinkle and fur. She stared bluntly at Bass, at last, and realizing this must stop, slurred, "Well, your scars… the scratch on your shoulder looks like a cliff someone would commit suicide off of."

Neither was happy. Would never admit it, but she suffered less when she was witnessing and experiencing Bass' roughness, aware that she is not alone. Aware that he was hurting for her. If she could see in the dark, Charlie may have smashed her mirror into shards that evening, and made him dig the fragments from her thigh in the morning.


	4. Part Four

The blade had stutters on its body, extra sharp; combined with the gleaming silver, there was some resemblance to rain. Normally, Charlie would valley over the sight, assume the dirt-encrusted neck below a knife deserved to be slit. But this man relinquished control of his muscles in the hands of Monroe. Bark from the tree he was hung against blinded him, and his legs swung to Charlie like a floppy baby – an infant taking her first breath just minutes before her last. When he wept, solicited for his life, it was with an itchy rasp, either from distress or a whole wasteland of sand poured into his esophagus. He had the appearance of someone attacked by a beast, and pinned down by a second; the difference being, Monroe would not leave just superficial scrapes.

Charlie had not imagined the Monroe Republic would react with chaos to violence, even if it were necessary. However, several men in militia armor questioned Monroe's actions, strained to reason with him, act like their qualifications were in therapy.

Least troublesome of all: "He is scared out of his boots because of you."

"Are you sure killing him is necessary, sir? It is likely he is just passing through," one argued. And another, "General, this pattern has been increasing recently, beginning with the death of your friend Jeremy Baker. Please consider listening to this man's story before a judgment is made. Not everyone is out to get you."

Charlie could already hear guns being fired for insubordination, perfect head-style assassination shots, once Monroe finished with this trespasser. Nobody needed to hold Monroe's hand, yet each solider acted as if their leader was unstable, hardly able to distinguish between his brain and his rifle, his feet and his history. At the moment, he required no respect except from the heart he was about to cease beating – what allowed him to be merciless nevertheless, the single-sightedness. Stubbles of his hair raised, eyelids like a gash, boots penetrating the ground beneath, so slender his bones are claws, strong enough to bind a man using his breath: Charlie precipitously thought of a werewolf. He was territorial, and his eyes were a translucent quartz until there arrived the aroma of blood. Blackened, then, as lungs who flood with smoke. She was unsure whether his murderous touch had an equal temperature to his softer one that she had met, or if it was even warmer. She hoped not.

A bouquet of liquid red roses escaping the treetop, the rotund canopy. Each divided upon touchdown, and decomposed into the earth, manic, leaving stains of ruddy petals.

Monroe made homicide an art form.

It was nauseating.

"Go on," he commanded the witnessing officers. The slump of a corpse was heard, and rotating to face them straightforwardly, Monroe had lips moist as after a tongued kiss. "Back to your duties. Stop putting your asses in the way of mine."

Charlie commenced hitchhiking back to camp, but a shallow grip halted her. He was even warmer than before. "Not you. Come with me," and distracted by his body, so primitive, the Adam's apple bobbing with a few hopeful gulps of air, she followed him. A trail was lacerated pointing westward, every russet tumbleweed seeming to be cords of blood to Charlie – unusually sensitive now. Together, they walked in a mutual hush. The world was stagnant, still, except for their two pairs of legs and an infrequent caress of elbows.

"You are paranoid. You torture innocents and their families. You are cruel and alone because of it."

The stroll stopped. A bird, crow black and rat-sized, perched on a ratted fence behind Bass, relaying Charlie's attention with it. Thankful that it kept its organs and viscera inside its skeleton, no self-proclaimed warrior had severed its head. To breathe was a curiosity in Monroe country.

"I'm not alone," Bass disputed, detached from her grave accusations. "You are here with me. And I thank you for it." A palm on her hip, calloused but kind, he rested himself onto her in a manner that suggested possession. Charlie was aware that Monroe had possibly never received a hug since the blackout, and possibly needed one – not that she would be the fool to embrace him. His odor, a cologne of whiskey and flesh, was congesting even from several feet away.

Charlie journeyed on at a faster pace, trusting she seemed unfazed by his physical contact, with the man shadowing her closely. Both were clueless as to their destination; both just needed an exodus.

Stale scenery provided for a pleasant escape. Although much of the forests and plains and hills and any form of infrastructure were in ruins, it beat being nestled between strangers in frayed uniforms and ducking habitually in case the wrong person seized your gaze. This was safe. Just as Charlie lowered her guard, Monroe called her name – under his breath, but disturbed – from a crook in the road. "Charlotte."

Slurping sounds, tongues white-capping together in sex, graced her ears first. Subsequently, leaves crunched by waders.

Slain skin. Tissue. Death's gasp.

The woman's torso had been opened almost surgically, and maggots lived in her; she was their home. Her ribs arced in unnatural positions, a tree trunk fissured from weathering lightning storms. Clumps of frizz and curls, blackened by gore, died alongside her, but her loveliness had not. Nude, brutalized, but her cheeks detained a flattering blush in spite of it. And only a single man had trekked this route recently – Monroe's trespasser.

"That motherfucker."

Charlie shielded her mouth, revolted by the spectacle and Monroe's 'justice.' He had been right. Vomited rushed upwards, preparing to spew. She swallowed.

On his knees now, navy uniform tarnished grey, Monroe gathered weeds and abused blades of grass. "Find some flowers, Charlie, please," he murmured, obsessed by an idea. What little that subsisted were dandelions and would disperse with a lone exhale. She harvested them swiftly and cautiously. He waited, cradling a whole orchard of half-dead things.

It was not a funeral – not really. Bass would have called it redemption.

"May this ugliness replenish her beauty, may life exist in her cadaver once again, if only for a short time." Wildflowers stuffed the abysmal hole in the woman's abdomen. He built a mountain, Charlie helping, of whatever flora he could collect. The final good deed was morosely separating the buttons of his shirt, tugging it up over his head, and planting onto her paleness.

Ashamedly, Charlie admired Bass: his appearance, the stories his tattoos and blemishes told, and how he allowed compassion to eat his rage.

"I want to do that to you," Bass revealed, standing up, seeming gentle. "You had so much life as a child, and now you stare at me with this encompassing sadness. There are dead parts of you I want to fill."

He touched her. Twiddled his fingertips in a horizontal pattern on her arms, massaged the velvety skin behind her palms. He left prints of dust as a woman's lipstick might blot, but Charlie did not feel polluted. She leaned into it just a centimeter, trying to recollect the last time she'd utilized her senses on another person. It was with Danny. "You did not do that for my brother, Bass."

His hand twitched, his chin broke a sad smile. "I'm sorry. I'm trying."

Adjectives submerged Charlie's brain: genuine, evil, scared, alone, warm. None of them explained Monroe, not adequately. She had to stop herself from falling when he added, "Thank you for calling me Bass," wondering when exactly her mind and mouth had betrayed her soul.


	5. Part Five

"If you are going to make me stand around in your quarters like a fucking cat, could you at least pass the whiskey?" Charlie did not pause for Bass' response, instead stretched up and over him, the hollow of her armpit bumping his knuckles.

He prided himself on being the least thirsty general in America – what was left of it, anyway. A wicker cart, stripped to bare, copper-specked cable cords, was never far, his stately collection displayed in the bottom basket. Bottles already uncorked lay conveniently on top, next to a single glass remnant to soup cans in figure. Underneath them was another mirror – Charlie noticed he had quite a few of these – perhaps so he could watch his face turn silly upon intoxication.

Bass chortled, but was unconvinced. "Are you even twenty-one?"

The neck of a bottle was already down Charlie's throat, temperate fluid cleansing her insides. She had not experienced the luxury of a true shower, a faucet spreading moisture over more than single body part at a time, in years; since the blackout, even a pedestal sink seemed godly. The least Monroe could do is allow her to have a makeshift bath for her belly. Sprites, golden-winged, fluttering where she most often felt empty and cold.

"Of course I am twenty-one, Mr. President," she giggled, an open mouth smile Bass was so pleased to see she could have persuaded him to do most anything in those split seconds. "I am not the type to break laws, especially with you around to enforce them."

Twinges in his chest, Bass tried not to think of Charlie as a woman, because she was not – not a long-lashed blonde he'd carry to his bedroom after flirting over drinks and an easygoing conversation. But she was beginning to resemble that type, her hair voluminous from the humidity and the apples of her cheeks a shade rosier than usual. Not to mention, that wind chime laugh, only obtainable by deprecating him.

"You could use a glass, you know." Ready to give his to her, preparing himself for feathery physical contact, somehow more perilous than usual tonight.

Sun-stained tresses pervading the air, she shook her head. They were so lengthy, Bass shifted onto his left leg to avoid encountering the threadbare ends, still becoming exposed to Charlie's vaguely girlish scent – grass on knees, froth building in the corner of her lips. "No, thank you. That is too close to mouth to mouth contact with you. And before you say you wash your china well, I am not sure that is something soap can wash off. You can keep your glass; I may even let you steal a sip."

Heavily, she seated herself – alcohol cart situated between her left thigh and Bass' right. Muscles exposed themselves on the surface of her skin when she relaxed, flesh spread flat against the aged wood planks, but her chin appeared sculpted, looking up at Bass. He was a hundred miles high. Steel-toed boots did not wane his height, and although Charlie never feared him, she understood why someone might if beneath his quivering grasp. From above, he caught her staring; so, she caught him looking, too. Taken back, her attention reverted to the flask, lapping loose dews of whiskey from the head, unlikely to waste any.

"Sit with me, Bass," she commanded. A booming voice that did not match her body language.

He obliged, joking, "Maybe I do not want to share that with you, now that you're making out with it," but she did not find the humor and mumbled a small please. He obliged, again.

Men and horses fussed outdoors, toting firewood, cocking guns, cultivating swearwords for women and rebels, rallying for a good meal, rapping on boarded up doors, polished hooves set in silver. Monroe was something of a father figure to the youngest folks – a father who slaughtered more individuals than he birthed. Without his presence, camp became noisy and claustrophobic; Charlie half-listened, formulating an image of Sebastian Monroe in her mind, the most precise possible. It was easy to forget he was resting inches from her, until his limbs stirred with discomfort.

The buzz made Charlie feel soft, incapable of forming solid thoughts rather than articles of information that just bounce off of her. And, like a summer flower, her body tended to gravitate towards heat. "Monroe," she said, blinking at his bulky uniform. "Can I see what's behind those doors?"

A quick nod towards what she presumed was his bedroom. Curiosity was only natural; she always wondered what a personalized bedroom might look like.

"So polite for you to ask," Bass extolled, and though it came out marginally sarcastic, that was purely due to apprehension. He did not need to have known Charlie long to know she could emit venom as easily as sugar. He directed her to his room, anyway, thinking she earned whatever small gift he could provide. What young lady does not deserve a private space – saddening to consider very few ever would again.

Charlie expected it to give a more masculine impression, more barebones. Sure, the floorboards exhaled at contact in certain junctions, but Monroe's room was suited for a king. And a queen.

The double bed was not meant to exist in such a desolate place, where Charlie felt fortunate to blanket herself in straw most nights; its sheets had been freshly laundered, and hailed to the neck of the headboard; several full pillows bred along its length. She had an overwhelming urge to lay belly-down on it and nuzzle her nose against cotton not hazardous to breathe in.

Wallpaper had begun to chip towards the ceiling, revealing its bleached purple strips. Charlie felt drawn to it, as well – how unlike Monroe the color choice was. Almost remnant of her room before the power stopped, though eroded from dust and explosives.

"I like your wallpaper."

She inclined against it, head cast atop her shoulder to watch Monroe. The bottle that traveled with Charlie ironed her bottom lip; he observed it sink in like a cushion, moistening when she tilted liquid past them.

Unfocused, she swayed – either a flaw in Bass' vision, or her ankles absorbing the whiskey. "You are drinking an awful lot," he said, a reminder, a concern. His hand scuttled to hers, centimeters from the alcohol she coveted.

"Get off of me." Not a push, but a scratch, her nails engraving his neck. A tint of Charlie was left in Monroe's forgotten skin's place, red bubbles spilling out. Champagne-like blood. And Charlie had not meant to hurt him, really, and now he was stumbled backward, and wide-eyed, and she wanted to kick him for attempting to take something else from her, and she wanted to crush herself against him for every time the Monroe Militia screwed her family over, and she wanted him to stop looking so damn shocked that she could hurt him, because he had hurt Danny.

Danny. Acid reflux burned her throat in realization: Danny would not want blood on her hands.

"I am," she stuttered, pupils jerking left and right, incapable to shape words for her actions, "sorry. I should not have…"

Index finger, middle finger – he stared at them upon stroking his wound.

Charlie set her flask down, out of the way, and used her legs to reach Monroe, who had strayed half across the room. Something about observing his injury made her acutely aware of every vein in her body, the pumping heart beneath her breastbone.

She compressed her tongue against his neck, then curled it – a basket for every droplet he'd spill. Bass' taste was an unfamiliar amalgamation of familiar things: aged whiskey, mothballs, sweat, granite, soapy facial hair, an unexplainable honey, and the metallic syrup of blood. His texture was much the same, a mix of tiger-striped cuts, beard piercing his skin, and smoothness. God, was he warm. All but the buttons of his shirt. Hoping to change that, she fingered his uniform faintly while kissing the sting from his neck; if nothing else, it kept her from hitting the ground.

His skin was clean again, but inflamed.

"Feel better?" Charlie whispered, oddly gritty. The closer she looked, the more she realized his skin was interwoven – a sweater of pores and fleece, battle wounds and knots that hiccup any design.

Bass did not move, but his eyes glittered, and Charlie pecked his skin again, massaging him the best she could, handless.

Jaw touching his earlobe, mouth raised: "I want to keep touching you, Bass. Can I do that?"

When he nodded, Charlie's cheek swept his in such a path that their lips nearly met. She did not pull away, she did not flinch. She raised herself on the balls of her feet to stare at General Monroe straight-faced when she met his tongue with hers.


	6. Part Six

If Charlie looked in front of her, she would only see the shape of a man. His arms clenched, no longer shrouded by a coat. His parted lips, receptive of hers. Two of his fingers, teasing her, hoping to separate folds in her skin, just how his knee nudged her thighs apart a few minutes before. His hair seeming unruly, curls forming where she tugged and coiled it with her fists, their conjoined sweat as a mousse. The stiffness in his pants he tried to keep at a safe distance from her crotch.

If Charlie looked upward, she would see peeling wallpaper, lilac from age – damning evidence that the man responsible for the slickness between her legs was Sebastian Monroe. She kept her eyes forward.

Her jeans laid mournfully on the floor, twisted into a snake-like pile. Upon removing them, she had felt minor humiliation; the undergarments she sported did not exactly fall in line with what was considered sexy pre-blackout. Too small, violent indentations on her ass, petite holes where lace was once strung but her maturing body burst out of. These had to be found in some abandoned grocery store, left for dead amidst the stench of rotting meat, and hoarded by her group out of desperation. However, Bass was not daunted, and hooked his thumbs into the shreds. Charlie moaned at the contrast of his cool fingernails massaging her rolling hips.

He backed her to the wall, until she became relaxed enough to raise her arms against it, shirt lifting from her abdomen. Bass dragged his lips across her stomach, and dipped his tongue below the valley of her breasts. Through the thin fabric of her bra, he saw her nipples harden in anticipation of his mouth. She was full, not small, but her breasts did not quite fill the palm of his hand, especially when he kneaded them using the tips of his fingers. Charlie whined when he tested their softness, cupping her through the cotton and pupils dilating when he watched her tits bounce into shape.

Keeping her bra in place, Bass' kisses attended to her collarbone and neck. He discovered her pulse with his tongue, and rested there for a moment. It was rapid – a pace he could fuck her at.

Bass growled.

Charlie was whining again; her teeth scraped his ear now that he had returned from her hips, and she tried the best she could to redirect his devotion southward.

Their bodies grinded together, lower halves intersecting through her circular motions right against the outline of Bass' erection. Fuck, he was hard. She wondered if he could feel her wetness against him, or if it had at least become visible on her panties. Any time she hoped to glance downward, his knee blocked the way. It rubbed her clit through their layers of fabric, and Charlie instinctively pushed herself onto him, bucking her hips as if it would remove their clothes and feel as intense as skin on skin. But she needed more.

"I want you to…" she trailed off, hoping he might catch the hint, her eyes lusting after the bed.

She found the edge of it and sat down, legs apart for Bass to situate between; wrapped around his waist, she could feel his cock twitch anytime she stirred. Her fingers realized the button of his pants. After fumbling for a minute, pouting until her hands steadied enough to unfasten it, she caressed the length of his zipper.

A tease. She was not sure if she was tormenting Bass or herself more by hesitating to free him, his thrusts becoming more forceful above her.

Then, with a groan, he separated himself from her – not quite standing up, but pulled away from her flesh. "Charlie." His voice was husky. "Charlotte, I need you to stop. I…Miles would not want…"

"Miles? You're thinking about Miles?" Her eyes widened, thighs partially locked. The flush on her face disguised whether or not she was angry, or just horribly flustered. "Miles is not my father. He has nothing to do with this. I am the adult, and you are fucking me. Not him."

Bass' mind was infiltrated by an image of Miles embracing Rachel, as immodestly as he was with Charlie then. But she did not need to know about that.

"Charlotte," he croaked.

"Bass," she squeaked, reluctantly permitting him to use that namesake if she was going to get her way. "Please. I want you. Now."

Heat pooled in his groin, in waves that traveled to his dick. Charlie Matheson was literally beneath him, asking to be penetrated by him, and appeared to be without a single homicidal thought. Her smooth skin was visible beside the smallest pair of panties ever, tinged a darker shade of pink the more inward he looked. He considered it for a minute, his breaths matching the throb in his pants. "You want me?" Another growl, the least pleasant tone Charlie had ever heard him take.

"Yes. Please."

"Good girl," Bass hissed, holstering her by the hips. Fuck Miles. He heaved Charlie to the top of the bed, and unhinged the clasp on her bra while her hands got to bask in the satisfaction of finally closing around his shaft.

All barriers were removed. Charlie had the thought again: skin on skin. At last, touches that were denser than snowflakes.

She gave him firm strokes, her thumb flicking across the tip of his cock, now shiny with pre-cum. His skin was so rough against hers, her head tossed backwards in surprise when her nipples came in contact with his hot tongue – so unlike the calloused fingers he pressed against her moisture. "Bass."

"Yes," he cooed, words melting on her breast. "Charlotte."

He spread her with his hands, the cool air tingling on her sensitive opening and causing small dribbles of dampness to search for his skin. She was ready.

Bass shooed her hand away from his cock; he grabbed himself by the base, and caressed Charlie with the head. Made a long, wet line from the V-shape of her crotch until he could dive into the silk of her slit. Winded cries, mostly swearwords, escaped her mouth. He felt so good against her, thickened, ministering the ache between her thighs.

"Are you sure about this?"

Charlie rolled her eyes, shoved her hips at him. "Just get inside me, Monroe."

With a small grunt, he did. Her folds flowered apart easily for him, but she was still tight. It was like she was using her insides to jack him off, firm and slow.

But he understood she needed him. Immediately, Charlie attached herself to his shoulders, lips drawing and teeth grating against his skin, and making cute "uhhh" noises whenever he would switch to a new angle. Her form rocked with his; she had managed to take his cock even deeper by pulling him near to her. Blood seeped in thread-like streaks from his back, her nails clawing rabidly once he found the best spot.

Bass had never experienced a woman so needy as Charlie, whose heart would break if he paused to do so much as smile or look in her eyes. She wanted it hard, fast, frantic. And he could give it to her.

One of her legs was hooked to his side, resting high enough that he could pump upwards, towards her stomach. Now unable to reach her sex with his hands, he moved in such a way that her clit would catch the dissolution of each thrust. Their hipbones lit with such force that they could already feel bruises forming there, puffy and discolored as evening clouds. Charlie tightened around him, and her chest was raised high as she panted. Her nipples swayed across his – an up and down, up and down bounce.

"Bass, I…I am…"

He hushed her with his mouth, but did not break their rhythm. "Close. I know, Charlie, it's okay, you can cum," urging, his lips slid with hers.

Head tilted back, and a harsh kiss on her throat, she let go. She surprised herself with how hard she had clutched onto Bass' muscles, upon releasing the high of her orgasm.

"Your turn." She smiled, and wiggled from beneath him. His cock settled against her belly, where he began to stroke it, almost humping at her sensitive skin. But Charlie shook her head no, then dipped down to kitten lick the tip. Widening her mouth, she fit as much of him as she could inside, and was pleased to discover the taste of herself. Monroe bit into his cheek, aware that he was approaching his orgasm. He did not know how else to warn the girl around him besides tugging her tawny blonde hair. It all happened quickly – warmness traveling down her throat, the rest seeming messy dripping from the rosiness of her chin.

Still interlocked, they rolled onto their side, Charlie's head resting comfortably on a pillow. She sleepy-sighed; the world was spiraling.

A last burst of energy, Bass slipped his face between her knees and lapped up what honey of hers that lingered. She tasted salty sweet, tainted by perspiration and man. It sent a chill up his spine – the realization that he had done this to her. He had fused their flavors, was loitering inside of Charlie. She shivered at his touch.

Breasts flattened against the mattress, the short inhale-exhales of almost-sleep, a sticky man huddled behind her, his soft dick tickling her back.

It was the closest thing she had ever known to peace, until he cleared his throat.

"Charlie."

Monroe shook her, and she jumped, torn from her slumber. "Charlie, maybe you should put some clothes on. And, uh, go to bed for tonight."

Little jolts of pain swam around her head, the hangover already incoming. She peeked at him through the slits of her fingers and groaned – kind of offended. His eyes were no longer blue, but bloodshot and crusty; he appeared to have fallen asleep for a while. "This is a bed," she grumbled, peeling her whole body to the sheets, "and I am already in it. You can get out if you don't want to share."

Though Bass sighed, looking annoyed, Charlie drifted off again, and woke up eight hours later to his arm slung around her waist the least bit possessively. Before she noticed her excruciating headache, she saw how his mouth was parted in comfort, his nostrils flaring weakly as he snored.


	7. Part Seven

Charlie's bed dipped with Bass sitting beside her, his vertebrae curving to trace the line her body made against the wall. All of her room buzzed alongside the musical sounds deriving from his throat – bored hums, accompaniment to the symphony he played on her skin. Outstretched, her freckles and blemishes were apparent. Including his, those cloudy bruises peeking out from a band of exposed flesh between her shirt and pants. He picked a shell-shaped scab for his fingers to dance on. Sighs escaped her, encompassed by the faint sensation of Monroe on her and restless thoughts of Danny interrupting her heartbeat.

Tilted to face him, lips swollen from being chewed, her eyes louder than her voice. "Would you bring him back to life?"

"What?" Something seemed to be lodged in his throat; he needed to cough, and instead, just weighed his hand harsher on Charlie's thigh, leaning on her to gather composure. Disappointment fogged him. He had forgotten for a short time that he was a monster.

"You know what I mean," she said low, would be a whisper if it weren't for the hardness in her voice.

There was a shrill noise that felt far away – the foundation settling into sand. In the evenings, Charlie would hear it and feel pangs of fright; now, home felt like nothing she could call tangible, much less watch crumble. She had only a distant awareness of her corporeal location, there being not sufficient room in her brain to process that and the 206 bones in Monroe's body coddling hers and the 206 bones in the ground that belonged to her brother – once was what pasted him together, decomposed for dogs to fetch.

"Charlotte." Bass forced a gentle smile. "I would do anything if it made you seem more alive."

She recognized a glint in him, that of his past leaching to the surface. Charlie herself could not recall too much of her childhood, and tried to stray from the novelty of ascertaining her temperament then – how she reacted to, say, Monroe, Miles, her own parents, Danny.

"You don't know me, not nearly as well as you think." It was nasty, hard-hitting at least, but true; he understood her personality as a girl's nearly two decades younger. They had spent only days, maybe weeks, together since, and doing what? Yelling at each other? Being angry at Miles? Impatient to whisk Rachel from their minds? Listening to the palpitations of the others' heart?

He shrugged, vision redirected to the conch of a scar on Charlie's calf. "I know your skin."

Noticing, Charlie brought her knees to her chest – an efficient way to close herself off to Bass. Goosebumps plagued her forearms, the sad kind, while the rest of her exterior choked on the air of her small dorm without any circulation, not any ventilation. It ravaged on her like a forest fire, and yet she was frozen in time. She hoped to cut him with her words, mumbling, "You must have known Danny's, too. You skinned him. I am not the only Matheson child. I wasn't. Stop acting like I am special, you know me even less than you knew him."

But Bass could not separate himself from her; he revisited her arm with his palm, the closest square of flesh he could find. "Charlotte, Charlie, he did not like to hide behind my legs as a child, call me his soldier, or ask why our eyes matched. That was you," a cautious response, though more firm than hers.

It throbbed. It was painful to exist as a figment of Monroe's mind, a memory that had lasts for years. "Please leave me alone," she pleaded, and buried her face. There was a tremble in her knees that caused the cot to squeak. Charlie timed her thoughts to it, thinking "he does not know me he does not know me he does not know me he does not" between every iron exhale.

"I have been inside you." The squeaking stopped. She still could not look at him. "I can't leave you alone."

Her descend was slow, unrevealing, just a clambering to get in the fetal position. Knees up to her nose. Eyes severe on the wall. Muscles clenched, a second late, at accepting caresses from Bass. Despondently, she had hoped to become invisible when she no longer gave him the benefit of her face, of her threatening tears. He rubbed her back, a quiet pressure from his fingertips. It was like a match to the fever in her eyes. Bass stayed, even as she cleared mucus from her esophagus, and made those sticky snotty gasps in crying. And it felt good, but it felt better to want him to leave in case he thought this was for him – the sorrow. No, it was all for Danny.

"I lost my sisters, too," he purred into her hair, "when they were very young."

Charlie did not budge an inch, needing him farther away and nearer at once. Absent-mindedly, she thought about his hands on her spine – the vertical pictures he was tracing on her, little flower stems. She liked it more the closer he got to her neck. The bud.

A soldier thumped on the door, and beckoned for General Sebastian Monroe. Someone, somewhere required his services. Or his blade. Charlie vaguely considered whose blood she would find on him tonight; she'd checked for it like other women would check for unfamiliar perfume.

He pressed a kiss to her temple and left soundlessly. She stayed where she was, unresponsive, curled in a ball, hurting soundlessly.


	8. Part Eight

It was the coolest day of the season. Charlie cursed at the flimsy cotton she wore, made null from wind. Weather was an enigma to her; there was hardly any balance, no middle ground between shivering and becoming slick with sweat. Her mother – her _mother_ – used to condemn her for the extremes as which she felt things. Naturally, she was wary to bring this up to Bass, who radiated warmth and had enough body hair to be a blanket. He had more pressing issues to worry about, like sending scavengers for food and slitting the wrists of civilian enemies.

Come his break midday, Bass visited her in his office. She was more comfortable there than anywhere else in the republic. The rest of the militia was not exactly fond of her presence, and her bedroom was not nearly as fun as General Monroe's. He was awfully privileged; she might as well take advantage of it, if not resentfully.

Today she was rolling around in his chair, feet propped on the presidential desk, comforter swathed around her top half. She promised herself that she would straighten up his bed later, perhaps rid the evidence of how jaded she got just waiting around.

"You cold?" he called, entering the room. Charlie spun his chair around, and laughed inelegantly, surprised to see him so early. Usually, his force could not get enough of their general.

She forced a half-nod. "Yeah, it's fucking freezing out. But I will make your bed later tonight. You don't need it right now."

Undoing his jacket, Bass chuckled. He grumbled at a couple buttons that would not loosen, so Charlie reached forward to help, dumbfounded that after so long, he still had trouble with the damn things. "Here, wear this." The weighty blob of fabric hung from Charlie's shoulders unattractively. However, it was made of some wool-blend that pleased her skin. Comfort over appearance, as always. Not that she particularly liked wearing an emblem of the Monroe Militia, nor how his gaze made figure eights on her.

"How do you know I will not be using my bed right now? Maybe that is why I came back early," Bass pushed. Charlie carried the roughened sheet back over to his mattress, then leaned against it to smile back at him.

He followed her, embraced the apple of her cheeks, and said, "I think you look beautiful in my jacket. I could get used to this." Their lips met - a subtle, plumose kiss. Strands of their hair got caught in each other, fused into a very convincing mix, and, partially due to the clothing he donated to her, Charlie sensed herself growing closer to Bass in temperature. The rest of the credit would go to his body sinking into hers.

A spool and thread action, she hugged his neck with her two arms and interlaced their lower halves together – limb against limb, thigh under pelvis. Bass divided their mouths and sighed, hot on the roundness of her face. He began running laps all across Charlie; the track ranged from her wrists, past the elbows, the nook of her armpits, the hollow of her chest, and did not reach its boundary until the dip where her belt buckle suspended. The angle was strange, diagonal, that Bass used to foothold the girl steady and, parallel, study her body. But his tongue was silk, and his callouses created a beautiful friction, and they were nomadic – too impatient to endure in a single locus. Charlie was conflicted, physically relaxed while recognizing an emotional discomfort that cast tension to her muscles, needing urgently to pin Monroe to the headboard and stop with the butterfly-light kisses, so shadowy they amounted to nothing.

"Monroe," she warned, coming out husky in the calm of his concentration. She shivered beneath him – an involuntary response - and maintained a sort of grit about her movements so he could understand. "You're going to have to give me more than that."

Whetting Charlie further, he chuckled deeply, and shook his head – a habit that tickled her skin. "Bass," he reminded, "not Monroe."

Otherwise, he ignored her pleas. Suckled amid her cleavage, creating a knot; Charlie would never call it a love bite, not from him. He did not know love, and neither did she because of that.

With her eyes closed, she envisaged what obtaining a brand from the Monroe Republic would be like – a real one, the initial of his name encircled, crusted by fire. She knew it would burn, even for someone who coveted it. Bass proceeded as if he could brand her mercifully, erotically, by teeth and saliva. No blood, no torch. But Charlie had anticipated a man with no formalities, who, at best, would cum on her back and leave tissues on the nightstand after he zipped up his pants, returned to the massacre outdoors. The Monroe Massacre, she thought, humorlessly.

He was long-suffering, though, and meticulous. He was memorizing every part of her body – branches she was not yet familiar with. This was his game, to coat her in himself and mark, then destroy, her without Charlie ever noticing. She hated his gentle anatomy and hunted his black hole heart.

She slipped out of his coat.

"If you are going to touch me," Charlie snapped, extracting Bass' eyes upwards, "do it hard. Make me feel it. None of this 'I can be soft and warm and a murderer' bull."

Bass straightened his frame, evenly, and left a few inches between them. They stared, not talking for a minute. He was uncertain if she should hear what he was thinking, his theory, but he told it anyway: "You want me to hurt you, so you can hate me."

Charlie gave the most scornful laugh, her hands breaking the air in repulsion. She increased their distance – now feet away, backs turned.

A flashback of Danny's face, a scowl. "I already hate you. You did that work all on your own."

For the second time, he chased her athwart the room, and decreased the span enough that he could watch her chest rising and lessening in raw huffs. When fury beset her, Charlie had the lungs of a sixty year old smoker. Occasionally, her legs would wobble as if disabled by her emotions, or an inability to murder their cause. The other end of the spectrum, Bass hoped to maintain his peace, and spoke like he was in a confessional booth. "No, you don't."

Volunteering armistice, he brushed the messy flaxen hair from her forehead. She neglected it, brow creased. She was solving a puzzle, explaining to herself before she could explain it aloud. "Yes, Bass, I do." Voice callous, scarred like him. "I like how you feel, but I do not like you."

"Neither do I." He mirrored her, growing antsy, no longer the general of the Monroe Militia – just a man. His eyes became the texture of oceans before a storm. He sounded like it, too, shaking and watery. "But Charlie?"

"Yeah?"

He gulped, suddenly thirsty. It took drive to hold out his arms, show her the back of his palms, stretch out his legs, and speak, but he did. "I've held you with the same hands that I have killed people with. I have said nice things to you, kissed you, touched you with the same mouth that has ordered the death of others. I have taken you to places where you could lay numb and forgotten in seconds. Places where no one would find you. But I never did any of that to you. I am the same man who has been brutal and hurt and killed, and I am damn good at it. I just want you to understand that I am also okay at other things. Sebastian Monroe can love, I think. I hope. I can be good to you, as I have been in the past few weeks, right? How I feel, that is part of me too, Charlie. I guess, I guess I am trying."

Sadly, she took his hand - the soft flesh buoyant, red dents saving his calluses on her skin. It suffocated her to acknowledge he felt more tangible than ever. She inhaled through her nose, exhaled through her mouth, and prayed that Bass would stay solid beside her, keep her feet planted firmly.

"I know, I think," she admitted. The back of her hand caressed Bass' facial hair, the bristles like moss. He had been so many places, a part of so many legions, that he was essentially a force of nature – a gloomy forest overrun by new, pretty leaves and willows. Where the dead decompose and fertilize growth. Either that or he was scaling up a vine to avoid his demons that were contained by grass.

Charlie understood more, then. Not completely. Just that he had grown feral since the blackout, and never did not care – rather, he cared too much.

He smiled, appreciatively, bowing his head towards her hand, using shoulder for support. They kissed, and she noticed he was working harder; it was a sweep of passion. She slowed him down, savoring their taste. Upon unraveling their tongues and seceding, Charlie whispered, "I think we're all trying, Bass."


	9. Epilogue

Lacing up her boots before she could check what the commotion outside was all about, Charlie considered a dull pain in her back. The past week had exhausted her. One day, she found herself being trained by a soldier; Miles had inadvertently taught her some of what he knew about swords through experience, but never anything formal. After that, she gathered dust in her lungs in short journeys through the desert-like conditions. Monroe always needed something or another for the Republic, and it relieved a modest boredom, scavenging for packs of matches or an extra shot glass for her to join in with his nightcaps. In the evenings, he made for a good bedfellow – not too cuddly, if she did not want to have to peel him off of her later, and more of a silent-snorer. Any of which beat sharing a cot with Miles, who could wake himself up snoring…and was not someone Charlie ever aspired to be spooned by.

Bass was different; he was polite. He did not even mind that Charlie would "accidentally" kick him in her sleep and steal the blankets during the unpredictable winter temperatures. Waking up beside him, which mostly transpired on the weekends, was not effortless to get used to, but he was warm, and his hair curled onto the pillow, and sometimes she wanted him inside of her in the mornings. So, it was okay.

She was just _tired_, unaccustomed to existing outside of makeshift camps where living was done in stealth – irrigating the fire out before naps in case the wrong person noticed she was there.

The Republic was both paradise and hell, as far as she was concerned. Good food was pleasant, the sex was exciting, and free lessons in swordsmanship were a bonus. However, groaning soldiers – either calling her a traitor, or things much worse – and living with herself after not being constantly hostile towards Sebastian Monroe was less than ideal. She did come to the conclusion that Danny would probably want her to, if not friend Monroe, guide him to understand that he can develop into a better person – or general, president, dictator, lover, whatever else.

Presently, Charlie felt the spikes of hell. Noise permeated Bass' quarters, and woke her with a start. Her eyes were foggy, ears sharpened, toes getting caught on the floorboards and tripping her as she walked. Outside seemed nothing short of a riot, but her organs, limbs, and orifices were still latent. She dragged her clothes on reluctantly, before noticing the aches and pains in her body – probably Bass' fucking fault.

Charlie was seconds away from jumping back into bed – Monroe could calm his own army – when she heard her name being called. It was authoritative, a man's booming tone, and she almost wrote it off as Bass screwing around. He would never yell for her that urgently unless it was a joke or an invitation for a fight.

Then, it made sense: Miles. She had forgotten her recent place in the Monroe Republic was not permanent.

"Uncle Miles! You're back!" she exclaimed, and rushed in for a hug. Skin greasy, and hair in looping knots, she welcomed him into Bass' office, hoping he would ignore the reasons why she might be in his best friend's room so early in the day.

Miles smirked, dirt encrusted on his face. He had clearly been through a lot. "Hey, kid," he returned, receiving her embrace. Behind him, Bass stood, awkwardly pleased to witness such a personal moment between two family members, whereas ordinarily he would feel a maniacal jealousy. These two, they were as close as he had come to friendship, much less family, in a very long time. He was happy for them.

"Where have you been? Did you find my mom?" The Sandman still left symptoms in Charlie's eyes, but not her spirit. She had an uncanny resemblance to a three year old sometimes, her passion getting the best of her more often than not – all wide-eyed and inquisitive.

"I did, yeah," Miles answered, bringing his hand up to his dirty cheeks. He did not appear to be enthused, and Charlie wondered if she had been waiting within the margins of Monroe's site for absolutely no reason. "Unfortunately, your mom is on a mission of her own. She was happy to see me, and was safe, spare a scraped up knee, but she was too distracted to make much of it. She could not follow back when she is busy doing," he paused to turn to Bass, a cheeky grin, "her work. You know what Rachel is like."

Feeling invited to the conversation, Bass stepped up beside Charlie; close enough, he brought his hand to her ass without Mile's knowledge. It was daring, and possessive, and completely like Sebastian Monroe to fuck with a Matheson that way. She leveled her posture, hoping a squeak did not leave her lips as she believed it might. Although Miles perceived her abrupt discomposure, he mistook it for intimidation; his best friend could loom over anyone with those incensed eyes, and they would adjust their stance. Bass had been using that tactic for just about forever.

Not taking his smile off of Bass, Miles asked, "How has this kid been doing? Did she behave for you? No, uh, assassination attempts?"

"Charlotte has been very good," Bass answered, and brought his hand to her head, fostering the knots in her already tousled curls. She growled a bit at being treated like a child, but was wordlessly appreciative to have her buttock free again while standing before her uncle. "She has done everything I've asked and more. Anyone around here can vouch for how helpful she has been."

Charlie just hoped he did not ask any of them, because she was pretty sure they noticed her long nights in the general's cabin, or the rest of her special treatment – more than what any other Matheson may accept, counting Miles. But she was like a young, attractive, female Miles anyhow.

"Thanks, Charlie. Taken a liking to Bass yet?" Miles would not stop prying, and for a second time, she felt an urge to squeak.

"Oh," she giggled, off-handedly, "General Monroe is okay, I guess. I still want to kick his ass, but they have good food here. I have not been completely miserable."

"His quarters are pretty comfortable too, right?"

That even made Bass hunch his shoulders, and Charlie wanted to elbow him right in the gut for reacting. Out of the two of them, he was supposed to be the collected one; Miles could see right through him at the slimmest bit of uneasiness. Instead, she just formed a guttural sort of, "yep," and thanked an invisible force that at least she did not leave any articles of clothing of hers hung from a doorknob or his desk or something.

Finally, Miles offered mercy by changing the subject. He cocked his head towards Bass, who seemed to have regained his stoic appearance, and said, "I brought you some of the best pre-blackout whiskey in the Republic, Georgia Federation, Plains Nation, you name it, Bass, as a present for watching my niece. In fact, I am sure it is one of the last few bottles out there. We gotta share some tonight."

Bass laughed, ringing harmoniously through the elevated ceilings of his office. His glance caught Charlie's; he noticed she was smiling with her eyes, too, as if trying to circumvent revealing an inside joke.

"Perfect. If you notice," Bass said to Miles, and gestured towards his alcohol cart, "I even set out an extra glass for you."

And, swaying toward Bass with a smile, Charlie could not help but look mischievous.


End file.
